


put the glory out to hide

by charcoalsuns



Series: Daichi Rarepair Week 2017 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalsuns/pseuds/charcoalsuns
Summary: It is one thing for Daichi to hope for revival, and another for that hope to continue realization.(day 1: seasons)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Live's "Lightning Crashes" - for imagery in the chorus, as well as the theme of simultaneous death and birth, old giving way to new, which Karasuno embodies on their verge of just that. 
> 
> ...by which I mean, I came across this song for the first time (in years? at all? who knows, memory is the original unreliable narrator, and mine is terrible with music) while struggling for a title, and in some strange happenstance, what I'd written actually made some sense alongside its lyrics *_*

 

 

_beginnings_

It's meant to be spring, isn't it, Daichi thinks, with a bit of an offhand huff at the chill biting into his uncovered neck.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his training jacket, strides a little faster on his way to school. The sun has just passed the line of roofs across the street ahead of him, and he takes a squinting moment to adjust; soon enough, he can glimpse the skeletal, sturdy trees that _sakura_ blossoms have yet to fill. Shouldn't be long, now that the new term has begun. Then their soft, quiet petals will drift inevitably back down to the earth, in a sight that lifts his spirit all the same, reminding him to mark the years that begin, instead of just the days.

There's no one around to see him yawn as he makes his way through the main gates. He blinks the daylight from his eyes, and looks forward, tentative, hopeful, to a different dawn – they'll need to fill their roster again; they'll need to train hard, to adjust, to incorporate the first years who are sure to join them. They will. He cannot let himself consider the alternative.

The gymnasium had been closed for maintenance between school terms; its door still rattles like a wizened lung when Daichi slides it open, still settles with a crash and a shudder when he shuts it firmly behind himself.

"'Morning," he calls, in habit. He crouches down to tie his laces in another. It's even earlier than he usually gets here, because the nets need to be set up from nothing, so he doesn't expect an answer, but—

"Hello!" he hears back. Only, it's more like _"HELLO!!!!!"_ and echoes from high among the rafters like no shout in this allotted place ever has.

Startled from his double knots, Daichi looks up, and waving at him with one bare arm stuck into the air is a boy he's never seen before. His other hand tugs tight the rope at the end of a net, poles and pulleys already in place.

"Oh," says Daichi, heartbeat still a thud in his chest. Surprise quickly turns to excitement as he takes in the swift, practiced way the boy secures the net, the way he dashes to the other end to fix it up, too, not a movement wasted. "Are you here for the volleyball club?"

The boy's got a grin that stands out like the dark spikes of hair atop his head. "Yep!" he answers, punching the air a few times before returning to his task. He doesn't even glance away at what he's doing. "Looking forward to it! I heard the gym needed to be set up first, 'cause of inspections or something, and that practice probably wouldn't go on for that long today since it's just the first day. Don't really get what that has to do with practice, but anyway, so, I was up already, so I came in to help!"

No, Daichi has never seen him before. He would've remembered him if he had, that cold springtime, weighted hope incongruence of such a small stature with such an explosive presence. He would've remembered being unable to look away, as if the focused glint of two eyes on his were capable of lightning, of striking into him from across a gymnasium floor.

"Well, then," he says, and straightens up, setting aside his curiosity for now as he goes to the equipment storage room for the next net. Pleasantries, he can do, even in the face of unusual starts; especially so. "I'm glad you're here."

 

 

 

 

_endurance  
_

It's not just his wild hair. It's not just his blinding, disarming grin. It's not just his voice that no one, perhaps despite themselves, can ignore, nor just his eyes that see even more than he expresses, in loud, forthright words and superhuman movements, quicker and more decisive than intent.

On a list of qualities he more than fills, he is also _other: please specify_.

Daichi is good at watching, too, good at knowing what is necessary, even when it isn't specific or particularly noteworthy; especially so. And there is _a blank_ , indeed, a quality to Nishinoya that defies the routine, the grounded expectation of every day. Something more subtle than the ways he is extraordinary.

They're on break from school, between their first term and the next, and all of them have progress demanded from their imperfect bodies. Amidst the exhaustion, the grunts and falls that dare not become complaints, only one voice rises above the rest, echoing from the rafters like no other shout Daichi can remember. It's not Nishinoya's.

Nishinoya is hardly speaking at all, least of all yelling up the storm that Daichi has come to expect, and for a terrible sequence of drill-sprint combinations, the thought occurs and does not pass – _what if he's leaving, too?_

But all Daichi has to do is _watch_ , even if it's all he can manage right now to keep himself focused on his own tasks, and so, even though it takes a little longer than usual, he realizes what it is that draws his attention so resolutely.

Of course he isn't leaving. Not when even now, when they're drowning in humidity, nothing they're reaching for is impossible.

It isn't mere stubbornness that drums this belief into Daichi's being, into his every choice and every action. There is fear, too, that he could be pulled under. So, just as _subtle_ , just as determined as the heart of a fire, he takes in what he can by way of fuel, and puts it to work, because gaining strength through experience is the only truth he knows. These same embers are reflected in his friends, his teammates, as they fight to keep themselves going.

He hadn't noticed it in Nishinoya because it hadn't seemed like he _needed_ it.

Daichi has watched in mild awe and milder longing, but grateful, above all, as Nishinoya has dived across the floor to make saves of the fastest trajectories, as he's zoomed to just the right place with his arms at just the right angle, as he's directed the ball _perfectly_ back to where it could be touched again. Daichi has only watched, and it is not until now, when he witnesses the unabashed grit of Nishinoya's teeth at a slam out of reach, that he understands their shared quest for _more_.

It doesn't occur to Nishinoya, fearless, first year prodigy, to be satisfied with his capabilities – nor to seriously acknowledge them, even. Respite is not an option, and it is this unwavering focus, perhaps more than his physical instinct, that Daichi respects. Nishinoya, along with everything he unconsciously is, pushes Daichi further in his own way, to meet somewhere higher still.

But it's one thing to aim themselves forward. It's another to reach a destination, and however clear their goal is – the other side of the prefectural tournament, the other side of every game that comes their way – all of their reaching seems to be falling short. They can't win if they don't first believe they can, Daichi knows this, he knows it, but with successes small and far apart and incidental, that belief is weighed down more and more by the threat of _impossibility_ being true, instead.

They keep the fire burning, both of them. All of them. They struggle to their feet again, again, and again; heed orders like the results they demand are certainties, only eventual.

They feel their sweat soak the backs and necklines and armpits of their shirts, wipe drops and spills from the battered floor, and when their muscles threaten to cave, when the heat pushes back in an oppressive swelter – they keep moving.

 

 

 

 

_frustration_

The burn of gymnasium air has spread outside to the changing trees when they play in their first tournament together.

Red – welts on his forearms, exertion slapped and blotched across his teammates' skin.

Yellow – water bottles that exchange hands in momentary space for breathing.

Orange – a uniform in the corner of his eye, still as a flame isn't, a body poised not to attack, but to defend.

He is not alone in this struggle to claw a team up from the ashes of one past. Asahi is fast catching up to their captain in strength and formidability, Tanaka right behind him; Suga calls louder and louder from the front of the sidelines, ideas well in place for the day he'll step onto the court with them. Shimizu is soft-spoken as the first time he sought her out, but her observations are invaluable as those of a coach they don't have. They aren't alone, and it is unspeakably reassuring, for another two, three, more to join them.

The serve thunders over as if from a cannon, and Daichi hardly forms the first syllable of _Nishinoya_ on his tongue before the ball is silenced, before it's already floating above their setter's hands. His presence, no less tame in his quiet, heats the space at Daichi's side, just out of arm's reach. His heart pounds. It is unspeakably reassuring, to have him on guard.

Neither of them spare a glance toward each other. There is not a movement to waste in securing their next step, in the rush of the game itself. There is nothing extraneous to say, when they can each so entirely entrust another part of the court to the other's capabilities.

Only, in the way of colors that fall faster than they can be admired, it comes to an end.

They're knocked out on the first day of the first preliminaries.

Nishinoya shuffles his feet along the pavement as they make their way back toward the bus. He's kicking at swept-up piles of shriveled leaves like he doesn't register them in his sight, and Daichi doesn't reprimand him for the damage. He doesn't think he can speak past the dry lump in his throat, anyway, nor does he know what he might say. This loss hangs around his frame in a raw, unfamiliar way – for words or for drive, he can't remember feeling _lost_ before. The crisp wind stings his cheeks where tears have dried.

They stay in the gymnasium when they get back to school; even more so than usual, Kurokawa looks like he has no words to offer, and leaves them with the keys, his footsteps receding evenly through the old, open door.

None of them make for the storage room, only take to the floor, only cross their tired legs between empty attack lines in the middle of the room.

Daichi steadies himself on a breath, low, hesitant, the kind he resolves to work through. He opens his mouth to speak; nothing stays lost for long.

Before he can find his voice, Nishinoya yells.

Wordless, endless, like a child's tantrum at a toy being taken away. His face is screwed tight, fists pressed to the court under shaking arms; the sound of his own temporary loss attacks them in his place. He can probably be heard from the dean's office. Tanaka sits up straight away, worried for him twice over, glancing toward Daichi as if he expects a snap in line. But Daichi knows as well as all of them that this is no tantrum – he feels it, too, building in his chest like an ocean's crash, smothering every flame of faith they were foolish enough to light by impossible odds.

He presses his lips together, not quite a smile, not that it can be, not yet. Fools they are, all of them, when there is no other way to be.

"We've got five months," he says, addressing his team – _his team_ , soon – and in a blink of eyes that open toward his own, attentive as ever, Nishinoya quiets.

 

 

 

 

_patience_

The sky is heavy with unshed snow when they walk down the hill from school to Sakanoshita. Their breaths cloud before them, behind them, around them, before dissipating into the shadows beyond the streetlights.

Daichi buys a bagful of meat buns, one less than the number they make in all, plus one blue soda pop that's crusted with ice from the freezer. The man behind the counter hardly raises an eyebrow. He runs a shop down the road from a high school full of teenagers, after all; ice cream a week from the new year is probably not the worst he's rung up.

They dig in quickly once he gets back outside, not letting the cold claim the steam rising from each bite. Suga scarfs his down like his tongue is immune to heat, and Daichi laughs into savory-sweet filling, knowing it is.

In defiance of the weather, or just out of simplest desire, Nishinoya tears the paper wrapping from his popsicle and sinks his teeth right into it, with a _crunch_ that makes Daichi's gums twinge.

They are careful not to stay still for too long, mindful of their fraying, regrouping muscles that would rebel all too painfully away from warmth.

The gymnasium is emptier than they foresaw, even months after the third years retired from the club, but they do their best to fill it on their own, practicing by each other's example, by the ideas they note with a spark from elsewhere. Daichi looks forward as steadily as he can, and he is more heartened than he says to those who are here, too, eating pork buns like it's the most natural extension of their post-practice stretches.

He knows they have no time to waste. He knows they have no time to spend waiting. But even so, there is something that _keeps_ , that doesn't run out, and it is a different grit from the sand in their hourglass.

Beneath their feet, as they walk together before splitting off for home, loose pebbles scatter from the road.

From behind, Nishinoya's running steps prelude his bag whirling hard into Daichi's arm.

"Ah! Sorry, Daichi-san," he grins, unapologetically bright, only slightly muffled by his mouthful of a second frozen soda. He's wearing a jacket, at least.

Daichi pulls a grumble onto his face in answer, scowling in good humor. "Watch it, will you," he says, knowing he won't. It hadn't hurt at all, anyway, which – the absence of weight to his schoolbag might be a different conversation to have, were Daichi inclined to advise him.  

Nishinoya finishes off his popsicle in another bite, folding the stick in half happily before angling it directly into the open mouth of a garbage can. "Don't have to!" he says, as sure of himself as usual. "You can take it!" And, as usual, he isn't mistaken.

"Right," Daichi says, keeping a smile behind his zipped collar. "Anyway, I'll be counting on you for tomorrow, too, so don't go catching a cold or something else ridiculous."

"Daichi-san," says Nishinoya, with all the seriousness of someone with a plan for just that, "I don't catch cold."

He hardly reacts to the look Daichi fixes on him then. He might be the only one who doesn't become even the slightest bit wary when Daichi expresses any sort of displeasure; sometimes it's a wonder he ever listens at all. But it's no mystery. Unspoken as the regard they have for each other is the promise that they will listen when it counts, and that neither of them will ever hold back from moving at their best.

After a few beats, Nishinoya springs to his full height, attention unflinching, teeth a faintest blue beneath the evening lights. The side of his hand knocks against his forehead in the cheeriest salute Daichi has ever seen, and he is as loud as sworn as he agrees, "Nothing ridiculous, got it," in a laugh that belies the intensity he can invoke when the right circumstances call.

"Good," says Daichi. There is a certain kind of intensity that doesn't need to be called – he still finds it difficult to look away.

Eventually, though, he does. They have time yet for some things, for indulging in the bright appeal of a shared idea, and Daichi knows through firsthand experience that in some extraordinary cases, lightning will surely strike again, in just the same place.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have many feelings about these two (and, well, Karasuno, but that might be clear already ^^;) and clutch my heart whenever they are shown together, consulting/supporting/admiring/working with each other, etc.
> 
> Some of these feelings may be found in the tags of this fic's [tumblr post](http://cmscribbles.tumblr.com/post/157090066805/for-daichi-rarepair-week-day-1-seasons-injury), though coherence may not. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
